Seduction Of A Highland Warrior

by Welfonder Sue-Ellen

  This was anything but.

  So Alasdair swung his horse around to face his men. He understood their annoyance. They’d been riding two abreast for the last hour, following a steep, rough path through the worst of Nought’s most savage heights. The air was thin here, the cold bone-piercing.

  There was also rain on the wind, like as not sleet.

  Alasdair sat straighter in his saddle, hoping he hadn’t brought his men here in vain.

  The looks on their faces said they saw it that way.

  So he took a breath, cleared his throat. “Why do you think we brought along spears only to leave them hidden near the dreagan stones while we called at Castle Nought?” He lifted his voice so every man could hear him. “We did so because even if those two black-painted longships don’t belong to the Mackintoshes, they could’ve been hired by Kendrew. Mercenaries paid in coin to harry our coast and provoke a sea fight with us. That, my friends, is what I believe. And”—he patted the long, steel-tipped spear tied to his saddle—“what place along this coast offers mooring so hemmed by sheer-sided cliffs that the land presents an impassable barrier? The ideal spot to strike a foothold if a shipmaster wished to appear and disappear at will?”

  He looked hard at each warrior. “Think, men, and tell me.”

  “Drangar’s Point offers many hidden caves and little-used coves.” Angus, a heavily built man with a bold, square face, surveyed the towering rock faces pressing so close to them. “We needn’t scour this arse-end of Nought to find a hidey-hole for ships no’ wanting to be seen.”

  “Aye, we must.” Alasdair disagreed. “Kendrew, or any foe, might send a warship beating along our coast, but they’ll no’ camp there. It’s known we keep lookouts. Well-armed men able to flash down our cliff paths and be on them in their sleep, slitting throats and burning shelters before they even wakened. That will deter them.” Alasdair waited as rumbles of agreement went down the column of riders. “So we’ll have a look at the Dreagan’s Claw.”

  “Dreagan’s Claw!” several men spoke as one.

  “No fool would camp there.” Angus frowned, shook his bearded head.

  “A fool, nae.” That was what worried Alasdair. “A highly confident shipmaster with a skilled crew would attempt the like.”

  He didn’t say how that spoke for Norsemen.

  Kendrew kept strong ties to Vikings. He wouldn’t have trouble finding a Shetlander or Orkneyman willing to lend him two longships. He could also have sweetened the price by tossing Marjory’s hand into the bargain.

  Having failed in procuring her a noble husband, he might be that desperate.

  Shipmasters held high rank in northern lands.

  Alasdair set his jaw, his hands white-knuckled on the reins, anger tightening his chest.

  “And so”—his voice hardened—“we’re riding for Dreagan’s Claw.”

  “No man can ride there.” Ewan leaned near, reached to grip his arm. “The men speak true. We’d end up on the rocks, adding to the grim tales about the place. There isn’t even a path that way.”

  “Aye there is, and we’re on it.” Alasdair pulled free of his cousin’s grasp. “A goat track, for sure. But it’ll lead us to the cliffs overlooking the access. If anyone is camping there, we’ll see them.”

  “And then?” Ewan didn’t look happy.

  “We line the edge of the drop-off and raise our spears, letting them know we’re aware of them.” From the corner of his eye, Alasdair saw Angus nod approval. “A small show of strength to warn that we also watch these shores, that we cannot be easily surprised.”

  “These are Mackintosh’s bounds.” One of the men at the rear spoke what Alasdair knew could be a problem.

  “The land is still part of the Glen of Many Legends.” It was Alasdair’s sole argument, without mentioning his burning need to protect Marjory. “We send patrols into Kendrew’s territory nigh every sennight, as well you know. Perhaps we haven’t ridden as far as the Dreagan’s Claw, but”—he used his most firm tone—“we are going there now.”

  His men looked at him, saying nothing.

  “My gut says the black-painted longships are using the inlet as a halting place.” Alasdair was sure of it, as certain as if someone whispered the truth in his ear.

  Indeed, about an hour ago, he’d have sworn someone had leaned close and urged him to ride on to the Dreagan’s Claw. He’d heard the words at his ear, clear and urgent, annoyingly unmistakable.

  Alasdair fought a shudder.

  He knew plenty of Highlanders who claimed they heard voices. Some, like his guardsmen, Gowan and Wattie, even swore they saw bogles.

  He wanted nothing to do with ghosts.

  So he pushed the memory from his mind, determined to keep such a mystery to himself. He hoped with equal fervor to never experience the like again.

  “One look and we’ll have our surety.” He curled his hand around the shaft of his spear, glad he’d ordered them brought along.

  “And if the longships are gone?” That from Angus, who was still scowling.

  “We’ll see that they’ve been there.” Alasdair raised a hand when his men grumbled. “That’s enough for this day. We’ll ride home thereafter.”

  “We could be halfway there now,” one of his men argued.

  “Hear, hear,” others agreed.

  “Thon inlet is tight as a mouse’s ear. All say it’s clogged with jagged rock.” A big-bearded man near the front of the column looked round at the other riders. He nodded, clearly pleased when they growled agreement. “We’ve heard the tales. The submerged rocks are fiendish, able to rip the bottom of any boat. We’ll spy nothing there but wreckage, if anything.”

  “No’ if the ships are Norse.” Alasdair spoke his worry. “They are such good seamen, they could take a ship through the eye of a needle.”

  The man clamped his jaw, unable to argue.

  Alasdair’s other men went equally stiff-faced, each one letting silence voice his displeasure.

  But a short while later when they reached the jutting promontory known as the Dreagan’s Claw grumbles were heard. The rugged path they’d been following ended abruptly in a tangle of rock neither man nor beast should attempt to scramble over. Twisted tree roots, ancient and fossilized, showed that once, long ago, thick woods covered this high, windblown place. Worst of all, gaping black crevices left no doubt that one wrong step would send a soul hurtling into the sea that pounded the rocks far below.

  Alasdair looked round, assessing.

  Horses were useless here.

  Nor would he risk allowing them any closer to the sheer drop-off.

  He did glance at his warriors, nodding for them to dismount. “Stay with your beasts. Keep them calm and away from any gaps in the rock. I’ll go to the edge on my own. If I see ships or signs of men, I’ll signal. We’ll then line the cliffs with our spears, showing them—”

  “Cousin…” Ewan strode forward to grip his arm. “We aren’t—”

  “I prefer my bruises from battle, lad. No’ because you keep pinching my arm.” Alasdair freed himself, turning to block the younger man’s access to the rocks. “I’ll no’ have you any closer to thon drop-off. Stay back unless—”

  “We aren’t alone.” Ewan slid a look at the end of the promontory. “There’s a man there, crouched among the boulders.”

  “A man—” Alasdair narrowed his gaze at the cliff’s highest point where a large outcrop spurred toward the horizon. He saw the warrior at once for he was just then standing, looking their way.

  The man’s face was strong, his expression fierce.

  Huge, with a wild mane of black hair, he’d braided warrior rings into his beard. War trophies made of silver taken from the swords of fallen enemies, the rings chinked as he moved, giving him a rough, heathen air.

  Dressed in full war gear, his mail shirt gleamed in the lowering sun. A battle sword hung at his side, but he didn’t reach for the weapon. Even so, the suspicion in his smoke-gray eyes warned that he’d draw it if provok
ed. A wolf pelt slung round his shoulders, as his Viking war ax marked him as a Mackintosh.

  He was Grim.

  Kendrew’s captain of the guard. He was also a man noted for his blood thirst and savagery.

  Alasdair cracked his knuckles, welcoming a clash with the stony-faced giant. He’d fought toe to toe with the man at the trial by combat. They’d been a good match. Alasdair had put a keen sword slice into the man’s left hip, a cut that had surely bit deep. In return, the Mackintosh champion had given Alasdair such a whack on his head that his skull had reeled for days after the battle.

  He was sure the bastard remembered.

  “Ho, Grim!” Alasdair raised a hand, watching the warrior across the rocky expanse.

  “MacDonald.” Grim nodded curtly, the terse greeting making Alasdair resent the warrior kinship they’d shared at the trial by combat. Rather than fighting on, they’d each stepped back, moving away to challenge others.

  A parting spurred because they’d fought so close to the King’s royal entourage, both warriors catching the eager looks on the Lowland courtiers’ faces as they’d stared down at them from the spectators’ viewing platforms.

  When they began shouting for carnage, hoping to see the warriors tear each other apart, Alasdair and Grim ceased being enemies.

  For a beat, they were simply Highlanders.

  And so they’d exchanged swift nods and whirled to disappear into the melee, sharing the triumph of thwarting the pleasure of a common enemy.

  Now…

  No Lowland lofties stood watching them, roaring for blood. Nothing buffered the old enmity that ignited so quickly when MacDonalds and Mackintoshes came together.

  Trouble could flare in an eye blink.

  The look on Grim’s face warned he had the same thoughts.

  Behind Alasdair, seabirds wheeled and screeched, as if crying for a fight. As this was Nought land, he had a good guess whose blood the screaming birds hoped to see spill onto the rocky ground.

  Alasdair felt the urge to please them like a fire in his blood. His heart began to pound, his gaze flicking across the broken, lichen-covered boulders that littered the promontory. Cold wind flattened the stunted bits of heather that grew here. And from far below came the pounding crash of the sea against the rocks.

  The Dreagan’s Claw would make a good place to die.

  And the barren ground would drink deeply of Mackintosh blood, welcoming its own as nourishment. So easily it could be done.

  The fingers of Alasdair’s sword hand began to itch.

  His men stirred, growing restless.

  Then Marjory’s face flashed across his mind. Her blue eyes chilled with even more dislike than she’d shown him on Nought’s cliff stair.

  “Damnation.” Alasdair curled his hands to fists, willing her from his mind.

  She’d driven him to enough madness this day. So he clenched his fists tighter, forcing himself not to think of her. He did recall his suspicions about Grim acting as shipmaster on one of the longboats.

  And here the bastard was, right where such nefarious dealings would put him.

  Alasdair felt his blood heating. His sword hand itched worse than ever. Grim strode forward, looking as if he suffered the same malady.

  That suited Alasdair fine.

  Miles away, on a shingled strand at the southernmost bounds of the Glen of Many Legends, Seona paused near a seaweed-draped rock. A legend herself, or so many believed, she lifted a wispy hand to her shimmering breast. She kept her gaze on Blackshore Castle, rising so proudly from the middle of Loch Moidart. The stronghold glistened with recent rain and soft yellow light shone in some of the tall, arch-topped windows. Men would gather there, warming themselves before the fire, sipping ale and telling tales.

  No doubt a few such stories would be about her.

  She didn’t much care for being a legend.

  A fable, good for little more than giving MacDonald children shivers. And perhaps, if the tall tales came even close to the truth—which she doubted—acting as a warning to the young women of the clan.

  Hoping it was so, she began drifting along the water’s edge again.

  It would please her if even one innocent lass were spared the heartache she’d suffered.

  Torment and anguish she still endured.

  Sorrow of her own making.

  Men’s hearts were fickle, while women loved true. And hurts didn’t fade over time. They worsened, digging deeper into one’s soul the longer such pain must be borne. Those were the truths she knew.

  Would that she’d known them then…

  In the distant past when she’d walked, not floated, along this strand. She’d been so young, her heart pure and trusting. No one else could’ve enjoyed such happiness. Or—she shivered, her long black hair rippling in the wind—no other maid could’ve been so in love.

  Resenting her foolishness, she quickened her steps, almost flitting down the strand now. At least she could appreciate that her feet didn’t touch the cold, wet ground. No icy wavelets would dampen her slippers. Far from it, her soft silver-blue gown and her cloak of dove-gray shimmered flatteringly about her, looking as always as if they’d been spun of moonbeams and star shine.

  Even ghosts took pride in their appearances.

  What pleased her more was the thick mist blowing in from the sea. Swirling and iridescent, the billowing fog blurred contours, hiding the great hills rising behind her and even obscuring the dark bulk of Blackshore, lurking out on the loch as it did.

  Sometimes she wished it wasn’t there.

  It hurt to gaze upon the stronghold that had once meant so much to her.

  Now the mist and darkness were her friends, shielding her from memories that had the power to break her. She who’d been known for her gaiety, the laughter Drangar the Strong had likened to an angel’s song.

  She couldn’t remember when last she’d laughed.

  An eternity ago didn’t seem long enough.

  Wishing that weren’t so, Seona paused again, this time casting a sad eye on the rocks of doom. Their black-glistening tips were just visible above the tide. Beyond them, deep inside the whirling mist, she imagined she saw a dark coracle bobbing in the surf.

  But when she looked again, it was gone.

  As well it should be, for she’d only let her heart conjure a memory.

  In her time, the fine stone causeway that stretched from the strand to Blackshore hadn’t yet been built. True, Drangar the Strong had started it, but the work wasn’t completed when she’d met her fate.

  Again, she touched a hand to her breast, her heart remembering.

  She could see the past so clearly, as if it all happened but a moment ago.

  How Drangar had braved the worst tides to join her when she walked the strand opposite his mighty stronghold. Most times he’d row a coracle across the loch, claiming it strengthened his warrior arms to battle the waves. Now and then, he’d swim, coming to her wet and naked from the water, uncaring if he was seen.

  He’d laugh, declaring that his love for her was cause for joy and never shame.

  Then he’d wink and say the only souls who’d resent such passion might be graybeards no longer capable of raising such desire. And as he’d make such claims, his nakedness revealed that he was more than able—and ready—to prove his need of her.

  Seona blushed, the memory of Drangar’s prowess making her shimmer brightly.

  Recalling how he’d look at her before pulling her into his arms set her heart aflutter.

  Knowing that for a time he’d loved her stilled the world around her. The mists trembled and then parted, showing the strand as it’d been on a fine, windy morning so many years before. Seabirds wheeled and dove, and the loch sparkled, foaming white onto the shingle. She’d stood on the cliffs, watching Drangar’s approach, only coming down when he’d jumped into the surf and pulled his coracle ashore.

  She’d hurried then, laughing as she raced down the cliff path. At the bottom, she’d shed her clothes, leavi
ng only her light linen undergown. Then, feeling most wanton, she’d undo her hair. Wind then tore at the long black strands, letting them stream behind her. In a playful mood, she’d run along the strand, deliberately dashing past her love to plunge into the water.

  After a quick glance at Drangar, she’d dive deep, disappearing beneath the waves. Then she’d surface again, sea foam clinging to her like pearls. She’d twirl and tease, proud she could swim so well.

  The loch was cold, so very cold.

  But she didn’t notice, her joy warming her.

  As did the heat in Drangar’s eyes when she’d returned to the strand. She’d known her sea-wet gown molded to her like a second skin, leaving no secrets while offering just enough mystery to tempt her lover.

  Well-lusted, indeed, he’d torn off his clothes faster than the wind.

  His face would darken then, his eyes narrowing with desire as he stood naked on the strand, his arms opened wide. She’d run to him, one hand clutched to her breasts, much as she pressed a hand there now.

  Only unlike now, he’d been there for her.

  He’d catch her to him, lifting her in the air and twirling her round and round. When they were both dizzy, he’d lower her onto the warm, dry pile of his shed clothes. The magnificent black woolen cloak he always wore.

  They’d made love there on the strand, their bodies writhing on his mantle. Long sea winds had kissed them as he’d vowed his love, the words potently seductive in the soft morning light.

  She’d always loved his voice, so deep and richly burred.

  That long-ago day, he’d spun beautiful tales for her, making her heart sing in anticipation of the wondrous life he claimed they’d enjoy together.

  He’d stroked her hair and smoothed his hand over her bared skin. Pulling her close against him, he’d warmed her with the heat of his warrior’s body. He’d nuzzled her neck, gently nipping the soft skin beneath her ear as he murmured Gaelic endearments.

  Love words that slid through her like honeyed wine, melting her soul.

  And, she now knew, declarations so false she should never have believed him.

  How sad that she had.

  But she’d not suspected his betrayal. She’d never have believed he’d spurn her. That he’d leave her to meet her end on the rocks of doom.